La Mort Des Amants
by Brunilda DeBarre
Summary: This is my first fanfiction!So,here goes nothing!World meeting at New York. Nothing new,huh? For once, two certain countries are not at each others' necks.What happened? Please read and comment.


**Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, only the plot.**

Outside a set brown oak doors in a building in America, New York, one could hear strings of curses, yelling, 've' s 'kolkolkol's, and occasionally, the word 'awesome'. There was crashing ,banging and seldom bangs from a gun inside but no one dared to interrupt or stop the people inside due to an important reason: behind the doors, we have country personifications holding something known as a World Meeting. (Read: Or simply, chaos.) The countries often cannot get anything done and were usually having unofficial wars with each other. However, today, two countries were oddly, not at each other throats like they usually were, as if they were still in the French Revolutionary Wars during the duo's time back in 1792-1815. The duo fought and were thought as enemies to other countries, but not today.

So what exactly were the duo doing ?

In a comfortable chair, a blonde haired man sat, reading a book with a frown, ignoring his noisy surroundings , especially a certain Frenchman flirting with …what's his name again? Oh, right, Canada.

His eyes skimmed through the words with intense concentration, blocking out noises. His fingers danced and delicately flipped the creased yellow page of the library book. His eyes scanned the page until he reached the first word in italics. He read the next word, and the next, only to become anxiously desperate - he found out that he has come over something he could not understand.

French.

Sure, he has learnt and used the language before, but it has gone rusty as he aged with time. Now he could only understand the basics….not a poem.

His forest green eyes searched the room for help. The loud American eating a burger ? No. The Japanese hiding behind the chair? No, it's not likely he can understand the complex language. The Russian who was smiling at his direction ? Wait! S-smiling at HIS direction? Oh dear, he thought as he quickly snapped his head back to the other direction. Emeralds surveyed the room once more until they landed on cerulean blue eyes that looked at him with amusement and a hint of concern.

The male shook his head: why on earth would he, of all people be concerned?

"Urgh, I must be getting old…"he mumbled.

"Oh, Angleterre, en regardant pour la belle moi?" (Oh,England, looking for the beautiful me?" asked the owner of the sapphire blue eyes with a smirk as he dramatically flipped his wavy shoulder-length blonde hair.

The other , now known as England, scrunched up his nose in distaste.

"What are you talking about? I don't speak bloody French, frog!"

The one in question laughed and just shook his head.

"Forget ze question. So why were you wearing that deadpanned look just now, mon cher?"

England mentally debated whether he should ask for help or not. To ask help from France was a death wish because he would never hear the end of it when the Frenchman teases him. However, he was extremely curious about the content of the poem…..

So, pride or contentment?

With a sigh, England chose to 'dig his own grave' and mustered up his courage to seek for assistance with an ounce of reluctance.

"France."

France ,surprised to hear his name out of the Brit's mouth, froze, speechless.

"Oi, ya wanker! Don't gape like a fish and help me, please!"

That's more like it….but was he dreaming when he heard the words 'please' and 'help' in the same sentence his petit Angleterre had said!?

Oh, the world is ending…..France mused unhappily.

On cue, England's voice snapped him back to his senses.

" Hey, translate this for me."

Clear blue eyes looked down to see his favourite language -language of L'amour.

In his smooth voice, he began reading.

"**_La Mort des Amants_**

_Nous aurons des lits pleins d'odeurs légères,_  
_Des divans profonds comme des tombeaux,_  
_Et d'étranges fleurs sur des étagères,_  
_Ecloses pour nous sous des cieux plus beaux._

_Usant à l'envi leurs chaleurs dernières,_  
_Nos deux coeurs seront deux vastes flambeaux,_  
_Qui réfléchiront leurs doubles lumières_  
_Dans nos deux esprits, ces miroirs jumeaux._

_Un soir fait de rose et de bleu mystique,_  
_Nous échangerons un éclair unique,_  
_Comme un long sanglot, tout chargé d'adieux;_

_Et plus tard un Ange, entr'ouvrant les portes,_  
_Viendra ranimer, fidèle et joyeux,_  
_Les miroirs ternis et les flammes mortes._

_- Charles Baudelaire."_

England smiled, remembering the times when he and France were little and the latter would recite poems in French if he was in a very good mood, but quickly went back to his usual look when he caught himself. France just pretended he hadn't seen the ghost of a smile and said,

" D'accord. Listen. In English this means,

_We shall have beds full of subtle perfumes, _

_Deep couches like tombs,_

_And on the stairways strangle flowers_

_Blossom for us under the most beautiful heavens._

_Gladly using their last warmth_

_Our two hearts will be two immense torches_

_Which will reflect each others double light_

_In our two spirits, these twin mirrors._

_One evening made of rose and of mystical blue_

_We will exchange a unique flash_

_Like a long sob filled with farewells;_

_And later an Angel, setting open doors,_

_Faithful and joyous, will come to revive_

_The tarnished mirrors, the dead flames._

Do you understand? Mon cher?"

England, much to both of their surprise, gave a sincere smile, something France had not seen for centuries and uttered a small soft'Thank you, Francis'. It was beautiful and it oddly made England look younger and less troubled. France felt the corners of his own mouth tugged upwards, in reply to the former's actions.

Perhaps, they have forgiven each other and were on friendly terms afterall.


End file.
